


May it happen to me (all)

by drivingsideways



Series: The Thing Is [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Pre-Canon, Romance, my miranda barlow feelings are endless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 17:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11190369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drivingsideways/pseuds/drivingsideways
Summary: but may it happen to meall- Sappho, translated by Anne Carson (If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho)In the summer of 1695, Miranda Barlow meets Lord Thomas Hamilton.





	1. Because I prayed this word

_Summer, 1695_

Miranda Barlow meets Lord Thomas Hamilton in the manner that women of her station, meet men of his: with a polite curtsey, a perfunctory bow. The Lord’s attention is then deftly directed to where it’s meant to be: toward her cousin, seventeen-year-old Elizabeth Worthington, the only daughter of Duke Edward Worthington. The seventh Duke Worthington, is only the latest in a long line of men who’ve found a way to increase their wealth and lands with every passing dispensation; kings and queens came and went, there’d been a Worthington at Windemere Hall for a hundred years, and there would be for another hundred. Elizabeth’s brother, John was scarcely out of the school room; but, Miranda reflected privately, he already had the careless air of one who knew that he was heir to a Name (and the discreetly mentioned _amount_ that went with it) and that he couldn’t gamble away his fortune, even if he _tried_.

Elizabeth was a Worthington blonde, pale, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed: the Worthington men were careful in their duties; indeed, with her complexion, she resembled Miranda’s own mother, her Aunt Mary, far more than Miranda herself did. Elizabeth had however, not inherited her aunt’s temperament. No, all the “wildness” that had so troubled Mary’s family, and had led, ultimately, in their eyes, to her Fall, she had passed on in full measure to her dark-eyed, sharp-chinned daughter. A plain dress and simple jewelry could not quite dampen the brightness of her eyes, though she had taken to lowering them swiftly, often, because so much about London manners and conversation was just-

_..ridiculous,_ she thought, as she watched Elizabeth simper and preen, playing her part to perfection, though just last night, Elizabeth had confessed that she thought that Lord Thomas Hamilton might be too _old_ for her, besides which, she had heard that he was quite _odd,_ no doubt a result of his extensive travelling on the Continent, everyone _knew_ how that could quite _ruin_ men, it was a pity that he was such a good catch, and did Miranda think the pink satin with the French lace was adequate: she didn’t want to look like a girl just out of the school room, but Mother wouldn’t countenance a more mature décolletage- it would be improper on a debutante. Miranda’s own gown for the gala was of far less concern; her uncle and aunt were determined to do their best by their unfortunate niece, for she could not be allowed to _shame_ them due to her lack of finery, but their “best” did not extend to outfitting Miranda in more than was necessary to catch the eye of a respectable sort of man. A younger son of a mid-ranking Earl, or an officer in the Admiralty who would be glad of Miranda’s connections, if not her lack of fortune, would certainly be encouraged. Mary Worthington may have left her friends and family to marry the second son of an obscure family from the North, who had forsworn a career in politics or the Navy in favour of a – lowly parish priesthood, dear God- but she was still a Worthington. _She_ may have treated her obligations to her family lightly, and barely kept in touch these last twenty years, but as Uncle Edward informed Miranda, _he,_ as head of the family, would not hold that against _her,_ poor thing. Miranda must, of course, understand that with Elizabeth’s debut also being this Season, her aunt wouldn’t be able to devote all her attention to Miranda’s “coming out”, as it were. But it was already-almost-too late for Miranda, at twenty-three- really, if Mary had wanted to introduce Miranda into Polite Society, she should have done it years ago, and so there had been no question really, of postponing this to the next year. But of course, with all these constraints, Miranda would understand-

She did, Miranda replied, politely, very much understand, and it was very kind of them, especially her aunt, to host her this Season. She was sure Elizabeth would make a brilliant match, her cousin was so lovely, and gentle, and _amiable_ , and would her Uncle mind if she borrowed some of the books in his library? It was such a magnificent collection, he must be very proud, and had he read all the books yet?

No, he had not, and she must take care not to appear, well, _bookish,_ my dear, though I daresay it’s my dear sister who is to blame for this. Or perhaps that sort of thing is encouraged in a clergyman’s daughter, but eligible men aren’t really on the lookout for women to talk politics with, they had quite enough of that-

Well, her Uncle, must, of course, be right, she had so little knowledge of London and its ways, and really, again, it was so kind of her Uncle and Aunt to undertake this for a niece they barely knew. Perhaps she would be better served if she spent some time exploring the city- she had early acquired the habit of walking everywhere, seeing that their nearest neighbours were five miles away, and it wasn’t always possible to secure a carriage- so her Uncle shouldn’t worry about having to arrange one for her, she could just walk down- Covent Garden, was it, though perhaps somebody may have to direct her the right way at first - or perhaps, Elizabeth would like a visit to the Royal Theatre-

-oh, of course, she could find ways to pass her time in the library- it really was a magnificent collection- and the lovely piano- she was happy to help Elizabeth with her playing, she’d noticed that perhaps her tutors hadn’t been as exacting as her own mother had been- and she’d been told that Music was a necessary Accomplishment for young women-

\- and oh, she was so sorry, she’d kept her Uncle far too long, and it was really, extremely kind of him-

In the library- which was, truly, magnificent, she had _not_ been merely facetious- Miranda ran her fingers over the leather-bound volumes, caressing their spines as she tried to decide which of the cornucopia of delights before her she would first sample. She spied some old favourites – Cervantes, Shakespeare- but so very many titles that were completely unknown to her- _Les Lettres Portugaises_ seemed intriguing- that if it were upon her, she would happily spend the entirety of her three months locked in this room. It would make everything else- almost bearable.

She remembers the vehement argument she had with her parents- for both had joined forces to send her away to London. Her mother, especially, had been adamant. “I want you to see the world, dearest” she’d said. “A world you rejected when you married Father”, Miranda had replied, incredulous. “You want to send me into it to be…sized up…like..like a horse or cattle!”

“It’s not quite as bad as that”, her father intervenes, gently, but then is silenced by the twin glares from mother and daughter. At least, her mother will not pretend that the Marriage Mart isn’t exactly what it sounds like.  Mary says, “There is more to it than that- you will have the opportunity to meet- interesting people, educated minds-“

Miranda scoffs. “I hardly think my aunt’s salon will be filled with the great philosophers of our age!”

“That’s because you underestimate the allure of good gossip and excellent food” says her father, eyes twinkling. Her father, Miranda reflected, wasn’t exactly an orthodox clergyman. He wasn’t a very orthodox father, either. She must be forever grateful for that, for them _both_. “You deserve to see the world, darling,” he says now, “to experience the pleasures it has to give, and to discover what you have to give it, in return.”

“That would be better accomplished if I could go to University, like you!”

“We can’t change the world overnight, dearest” he says, softly, “No matter how much we wish to.”

“No”, Miranda replies, bitter, “we can’t.”

“At any rate, nobody’s changing the world sitting in Yorkshire”, says her father, chuckling a little. “With some luck, my dear, you may even find the only sensible man in Christendom wandering the halls of Worthington House, glass of wine in one hand, Cervantes in the other.”

“Well,” her mother says, “if you do find such a one, Miranda, I must warn you in no uncertain terms _not_ to marry him. A man wandering around a party with a book in hand when he could be stealing kisses from a beautiful woman, could hardly be _sensible_.”

“We must live in the hope that he will show enough sense to realize his mistake _immediately_ ”

Miranda rolls her eyes at them both: she knows how they met- and watching her mother dimple at her father, and the light in his eyes when he looks at her undimmed these twenty-four years- she, wonders, wistfully if such miracles may be passed down to every subsequent generation.

She rather thinks not: miracles require believing hearts, like her parents’. She, on the other hand, has always been too much of a pragmatist. It is _that_ part of her which acknowledges the force of her parents’ arguments- there is no chance here, in Yorkshire, in her current situation, for something more. If she should listen to what her heart-and her head- have been yearning for- especially these last two years- then to London she must go. Perhaps, she might find a- partner- there; in the more likely event that she did not, she might even be content to return home, having at least tasted life in the city; rather than sitting curled up in the comfortable old chair in their library, dreaming of a bigger life.

 

The _bigger_ life she’d envisaged in Yorkshire had- staggeringly- taken the form of seemingly endless visits to the milliners, the hat shop, the jewelers, the milliners again. Trailing her aunt and cousin, and submitting to their concern (Elizabeth, who was a generous natured girl, if woefully _ignorant_ ) and their condescension (Aunt Catherine), and to the pokes and prods of seamstresses, who pulled her corset laces so tight that she could barely breathe, and harried maids who attempted to brush and powder her hair into the latest fashions- that only served to make her look completely fatuous- she wondered how she would survive the rest of her time here. How would she keep up the pretense of polite interest in the company of Elizabeth and her friends, women not so far removed from her in age as in life experience and interests? It was strange, she thought, how she, brought up mostly isolated and away from Society, felt that she knew more of the world than her cousin and friends who had lived most of their lives here in London. They had been trained, she thought, from an early age for the roles they were to play in life, wife and mother and mistress, and she- she didn’t fit into that life at all. And it seemed to her that attempting to do so would be to- sever herself, or to live a life of unending deception: smiling when she did not want to, staying indoors when she did not want to, pretending ignorance when she had knowledge. A _bigger_ life was the provenance of _men_ ; or women not constrained by the demands of aristocratic society; it had been naïve of her, she thought ruefully, to think anything else possible. After all, this was what her mother _had_ extricated herself from- perhaps, she, like Miranda, had hoped that two decades would have made some difference.

 

Alice, one of the several house maids has tracked her down in the library, and brings with her a large pot of tea. “There you are miss,” she says, smiling- Miranda has found it easier to make friends among the staff than her cousin or aunt are entirely comfortable with-but Miranda doesn’t care. “The mistress has been looking for you.” Miranda makes a face. “Is it the dress again?” she sighs. Miranda had taken one look at the – concoction sent to her by the fancy milliner’s – and immediately requested Alice for a pair of scissors, which she’d wielded unmercifully under Alice’s round-eyed gaze. “No miss, I believe it’s the jewelry. Mistress wishes to know why you’ve refused to wear the ruby set that she’s had especially sent for you.”

“I don’t suppose I could point out to her that it’s just- ugly?”

Alice giggles: “I don’t suppose you can, Miss.”

Miranda dismisses her with a smile, “Thank you Alice, I’ll go up to her in a while- I’ll need the tea to fortify me before, I think!”

When Alice leaves, Miranda sips gratefully from the delicate china cup; a truly beautiful design, she thinks tracing the deep blue orchids over the white background, not ostentatious, unlike so many other things in this house- from the heavy brocade on the curtains, to the gilt-edged sophas and paintings. Most were portraits- her forbearers, she thinks, and cannot help feeling a little awed. What would they think of _her,_ she wonders, and smiles a little wryly to herself: nothing very complimentary, she hazards. Though every generation of Worthingtons had probably produced at least one _black sheep_ – she hoped- imagining herself the heir of a long line of worthies did nothing good for her spirits right now. The steam rises gently off the tea, and she strokes the rim of the cup. This at least, is a little beauty in this oppressive house- it reminds her of her mother. Mary had carried a similar tea set with her to Yorkshire- one of the few things she had taken with her as dower; the Worthingtons unwilling to part with more than the minimum for their wayward daughter. It sat, incongruous in her mother’s kitchen, amongst the pans and ladles and sensible cutlery; carefully cleaned and polished, but not kept aside for “special occasions”- instead used daily in their family ritual; the three of them drinking tea and talking, laughing, arguing. Miranda feels her eyes well up: it is foolish; this separation is temporary. Five galas and perhaps some visits to Approved Plays, and a card party or three- and she can be free again. She will not be entirely truthful when she tells her parents that she _tried,_ but honestly, she thinks, they would not blame her if they were here with her.

She sighs, and sips the last of her tea. Onward to face the Dragons, Miranda, she tells herself, remember only you have the keys to the kingdom.

 

Lord Thomas Hamilton has danced two dances with Elizabeth, three with the Yarrow girl, and one with That Obnoxious Woman, Edith Blythe, really, what had possessed Lady Wilmington to send her an invitation, one really could not guess. “Cannot one?” titters Lady Worthington’s friend, Lady Amelia Saint-James, and Lady Worthington laughs, equally knowing. Miranda doesn’t know what _she’s_ missed, and she doesn’t think she should say what she thought- that Thomas Hamilton had clearly seemed to enjoy that one dance more than all the others put together- in the middle of it, he had thrown his head back and laughed aloud, at something his partner had said; he had looked- _beautiful_ \- Miranda acknowledges. She herself had been asked to dance by several worthies- a few of whom had stepped on her toes, causing her to wince, and the youngest of whom- a boy with a stammer, who had only blushed more with each attempt of hers to draw him out- and almost torn the train of her gown by not only stepping on it, but then dragging her along in his attempt to undo to the damage. Only three had attempted conversation of any sorts. As the night progressed, and conversation grew louder, and less restrained, as the wine and alcohol circulated, Miranda found that she needed a respite, and to rest her aching feet. Elizabeth had recovered from the disappointment of not being favored by Thomas Hamilton- indeed, her dance card was full to overflowing. Miranda did not think that she’d sat out a single dance thus far.

Slipping out of the ballroom, she searched for a staircase she had seen earlier- it had looked like it led out to the gardens. She heaves a sigh of relief when she steps outside; the fresh air soothing her almost immediately. Music and light stream out from the ballroom windows- enough light to see by- so she slowly walks down the path that leads towards what looks like a small grove. 

That it doesn’t become darker as she walks further away from the house surprises her- until she realizes that the moon is full; she had noticed because of the light from the ballroom- a thousand candles, she was sure- and cannot help thinking of how frugally they had to use them at home-the moonlight is bright enough that she can see the grove is large-ish, and at the far end there’s a gazebo of some kind.

The music grows fainter, but is still audible, and she hums along beneath her breath as she enters the circular gazebo, which is not as large as she had first thought. It has medium sized benches arranged within, along the edges, 4 of them, and as she enters, she sees the silhouette of a large figure sprawled on one. Startled, her soft “oh” sounds loud in the silence: a pause in the music from the ballroom- it causes the figure to almost fall off the bench. When the man- for it is clearly a man- rights himself on his feet, she’s even more surprised. The moonlight glints off the golden hair of Thomas Hamilton, though much of his face is in shadow, she does recognize his figure and – she realizes, slightly surprised at herself- the smile he’s directing at her.

“I beg your pardon”, she says, “I didn’t realize there was someone here. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

She’s turning away when he says, “Miss Barlow”- and that, really, _is_ astonishing, she wouldn’t have thought her name even registered. He continues, “I really cannot allow you to depart from here!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, to chase a lady away from her chosen sanctuary would be most ungallant of me, would it not?”

It’s said with the roguish smile that has no doubt charmed many a woman- and he knows it too, she thinks. For some reason, it annoys her.

“It was I who disturbed your sanctuary, sir, so I must leave. Possession is nine parts, is it not?”

He laughs, an amused, warm sound.  “But in this case, I would rather it not so, because the remaining tenth would be so-“a pause, “-lonely. Come now, we shall make a deal!”

“A deal?”

“Yes! There are four benches- just so. We could each take one- or two- or take chances seated on different ones- just in case, you know, they _feel_ different- for the duration of our stay here.  Each party may, with the permission of the other- and only with the permission of the other, speak, but no more than a minute at most, at a stretch.  How does that sound?”

Again, the smile hinting at all manners of mischief, and the faintest hint of a- challenge? Very well, then. Despite herself, Miranda is- willing to play along, for the moment.

“Do I get first choice?” she asks.

“But of course, “he says, bowing exaggeratedly deep, and when he rises, there’s a laugh in his eyes.

“Very well then”, she says, “I choose this one.”

She settles herself on the bench, and looks at him over her shoulder, feeling her lips curve into a smile, that he returns.

“I will take, ah- _that_ one” he says, and she must twist a little to see that he’s chosen the one opposite hers, with his back to her.

So.

Silence descends- or mostly descends- the musicians seem to be playing a particularly lively number, and then another, and then a third.

She’s almost forgotten that she isn’t alone, when a soft huff of laughter reminds her that she isn’t.

“Permission to speak, Miss Barlow?”

“No.” she says, resolute in not turning around.

An inelegant snort of laughter, this time.

She still doesn’t turn around.

They settle into silence again. The garden that stretches out around them is perhaps slightly smaller than the one at the Worthington House, but it seems more pleasingly arranged. The air is heavy with the scent of roses, and lilacs. A gurgle of water runs somewhere; the stillness of the night slowly leaches the tension from her shoulders, and her feet begin to regain feeling.

She supposes she should go back before she was missed. Already, she was sure the morrow would bring some censure in the form of pointed remarks at her failure in encouraging suitors. After all, that was why she was here, was she not? _No,_ Miranda imagines herself saying fiercely, _I am not here to find a man, I am here to find myself._ Even as she thinks it, she can’t help the small laugh that it chokes out of her; imagining the faces of her guardians and her cousin in reaction to such a statement.  

“Might that be construed as permission Miss Barlow?”

She sighs, and twists around to face him. “You seem very desirous of speech, for someone who was skulking around in the shrubbery just a few minutes ago.”

“Not _skulking_ , that is a _gross_ mischaracterization, and you know it!” he says, his voice lilting with suppressed laughter.

“Well, you certainly didn’t seem to indicate that you wanted company, though perhaps, sprawling, is the word,” she allows, “though it doesn’t quite seem to fit: _sprawling in solitude_ seems less likely than _skulking.”_

“I often find that what one thinks one wants, and what one really wants are two different things.”

“Or several different things.”

“Or several. You, however, do seem to know what you want.”

Her mouth twists, “Knowing what one wants, and getting it- those are two different things.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, “I find the world often conspires against me in the most inconvenient manner.”

He says, softly, _“How should you be? You should be like a rocky promontory against which the restless surf continuously pounds. It stands fast while the churning sea is lulled to sleep at its feet. I hear you say – ``How unlucky that this should happen to me''. But not at all. Perhaps say instead how lucky I am that I am not broken by what has happened, and I am not afraid of what is about to happen. For the same blow might have stricken any one, but not many who would have absorbed it without capitulation and complaint.”_

She’s startled into laughter. “Do you always quote Marcus Aurelius to excuse your bad behavior, then?”

There’s a flash of surprise on his face at her recognition of the quote; _good,_ she thinks.

He smiles - a genuine smile, not the practiced, flirtatious one that she’d been on the receiving end of at the start- “Only if I am certain it will get me off the hook with my friends”

She gets up and starts to walk away, leaving with “Your friends are easily impressed- or easily befuddled, my Lord.”

He laughs out loud then, the sound warm and glad in the night, and the _good_ that she feels _now_ feels different from a moment before, she’s not quite sure _why_.

“Miss Barlow!” he calls after her; she pauses, half turning toward him. He’s leaning against the gazebo entrance, his hands in the deep pockets of his coat, neither hair nor cravat even slightly askew despite the _sprawling_ , and the smile on this face this time seems strangely hesitant- “It seems I need a better quality of friend, and soon. May I call on you on the morrow?”

The decision is surprisingly _easy_ , she thinks.  


	2. all my heart longs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come to me now: loose me from hard  
> care and all my heart longs  
> to accomplish, accomplish. You  
> be my ally.
> 
> \- Sappho, translated by Anne Carson in "If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho"

The door expels them onto the grimy alley that borders the back of the shop. Thomas cradles the left side of his face with a spotless handkerchief that gleams white in the darkness- the moon is only a sliver in the sky tonight. “That’s going to hurt like hell…tomorrow,” he grumbles, waving her hand away. “It isn’t bleeding, darling”.

“We better get you home directly so that Weston can- “

“….oh don’t be such a _fuss pot_ Miranda, it’s not like you. It’s such a beautiful night, let’s take a walk.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and he grins at her, putting away the ‘kerchief. In the dimness, she can see the beginnings of a purpling bruise on his fair skin.

 “Well, you’re going to have to avoid company for a day or two, unless you want to answer some inconvenient questions.”

“Only polite company”

“Like the ones back there?” she begins giggling. “I had no idea that Lord Appleby would have such _definite_ views on the proper breeding of horses.”

“Or that _you,_ my sweet, had such definitive views on Aristotle.”

“Well, a man is entitled to be wrong about one but not the other!”

They’re ambling toward the river now, away from Mrs.White’s Chocolate House, an establishment that she’d been gratified to find out, traded in more than delicious hot chocolate. Even if their _other_ business required that their patrons sneak in through a side entrance long after Respectable Society was asleep.

She tucks her gloved hand through his, and he places his now free hand over hers.

“Mr.Weston is going to scold me”, she mourns, “I am sure he thinks that I’m a bad influence on you!”

He slides an incredulous glance at her, “He’s known me since I was a toddler. Trust me when I say, he will not hold _you_ responsible in the least for any of it. In fact, I know for a fact that he thinks I’ve corrupted the innocent daughter of a clergyman.”

“Did he mention that before or after you requested him to find enough cloth to bind my breasts?” she laughs.

“After, but _before_ the Incident at the Masquerade-“

“For shame, my Lord. We agreed that we would never again refer to That Night!”

“It certainly went more poorly for me, than for you.” He stops abruptly. “In fact, now that I think on it, that is _usually_ the case. How is that, you think?”  he makes a mocking moue at her.

She laughs “Womanly wiles: they don’t quite go away just because I’m dressed like a man.”

The mocking disappears, replaced by something a little more heated, delicious, when he murmurs “In fact, altogether even more bewitching”.

He pulls her closer- they’re in the middle of a deserted street- she goes willingly into his arms, raising her own around his shoulders to draw his head down to hers. It is not their first kiss or second, or third- their first had been-Miranda blushes a little to remember it- up against a wall, the first time they had gone on one of their night Adventures- the thrill of sneaking out of the house with Alice’s help, already changed into the trousers and shirt and coat that Thomas had sent for her- the raucous laughter and the heated arguments at the Club- Lord Hamilton’s young cousin twice removed had gotten over his country-shyness within the hour- and was ready to challenge him in his Court- for _of course_ , Thomas had a court wherever he went, and by the time they stumbled out, the sky already beginning to lighten over the east,  a little drunk- a lot drunk, in Miranda’s case- on _everything-_ not just the liquor, leaning a little on each other- she’d pressed him against a wall and tilted her head up at him, a question and a plea- her hair coming a little undone underneath the wig she was wearing- and his eyes- had looked just like they did now- as she knew hers did- mirroring her desire and excitement and _joy-_ the kiss was deep and a little sloppy, shaking her to down to the toes encased in gleaming boots, making her press against him more, eager to get _closer_ , _closer-_ she pushes her thigh between his legs- if anybody had seen them _-_ she did not care then, and she does not care now- or not much, not enough to stop her from deepening it, sliding her tongue against his, and swallowing the small moan he makes in his throat-her hand now pressing uncaring on the bruise on his cheek, his hands a band around her back and neck- they kiss and kiss and kiss, until they’re out of breath, lips tingling, and have to break apart- quick pecks now, because they still can’t let go, lips curving into smiles against the other- she takes a step back, and another, hands still linked, they walk toward the docks.

They stand shoulder to shoulder at the docks, the smell of the sea buried so far ‘neath the rotting fish and smoke and oil as to be -almost- indiscernible. “Would you like a life at sea, do you think?” she asks, idly. “When I was a child, it was all pirate games” he says, with a small smile, “lots of swords and blood- now, I’m not so sure. What about you?”

“Mother once bought a painting- a local artist- it was a small canvas- there was the ocean and the sky- just two different shades of blue, nothing else. It…took my breath away. To imagine it. Such-freedom.”

She darts a glance at him, he’s looking at her so fond, it makes her feel warm all over. “We’ll sail one day, dearest, around the world, if you wish.”

“To India? China?”

“India, China, the Bahamas- in fact, the latter may be something I should look into-“at her inquiring glance he adds, with a wry quirk of lips- “My father has just bought an island.”

“An entire island?” she says, marveling.

“And everything on it.” he adds, “as though-“

“-as though life could be bought and sold from a distance” she says, soft. In the few weeks she’s known him, Thomas has said enough about his father for her to form a strong dislike of the man, sight unseen. And yet, Lord Alfred Hamilton’s position and wealth is responsible, in part, for what Thomas _is_ \- why people throw open their doors to him, and mothers of eligible daughters connive, and others curry his favour, even as they privately whisper- but only in part, she thinks, fiercely. For so much of what Thomas is- is just _him._ His razor mind and his generous spirit; his belief in a better world--he is so quick to laugh, not the least at himself. She’s watched as he draws people toward him, no matter where he is- at a club, a coffee shop, a private party- moths to a flame they are helpless to resist. Men, women, old and young. She had never thought it possible that she-

-she shivers, suddenly. “You’re cold” he says, noticing immediately, as he always does. “Let’s get you home.”

“It’s nothing”, she demurs, and slides her hand into his. “Let’s stay a while.”

 

He seeks her out at every party, he calls on her every day. Miranda knows that, if, at the end of the season, there is no announcement of a wedding, she will be- well, not _ruined_ , precisely, but certainly an object of scorn, where now she is merely the subject of envious gossip. She maintains a non-committal silence in the face of inquiries from Elizabeth (is it true that he’s a good kisser?) and Aunt Catherine (is it true that he owns three chateaus in France?).

It is not that he hasn’t asked; they had been barely four weeks into their -relationship-when he had asked, the first time. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that they were lying in his bed, her head pillowed on his chest, his fingers gently soothing her scalp, the afternoon light dappling the blue bedcovers.  It wasn’t so much a question though, as a statement: “When we’re married”, he’d said, “I’m going to pretend that my wife doesn’t like the wallpaper and get rid of it. I have been trying this age to get it done, but have been met with all manners of resistance. But a new wife: that is an argument that isn’t easily overcome.”

She raises her head, not quite ready to challenge everything in that statement- “And what if I said I liked it?”

“I would call you a liar, dearest. I _see_ how you avoid looking at the walls here.”

She chuckles, because it’s true.

He tilts his head at her: “Are you waiting for me to ask you _properly?_ ”, and damn him, he should not be able to read her this well, so soon. It unsettles her.

“I’m waiting for you to _ask.”_

“Ah,” he says, looking sheepish.

He raises her right hand to his mouth, presses a soft kiss against her palm.

“Marry me?”

She pulls her arm free- gently- and sits up, naked as the day she was born, and uncaring.

“No.”

That makes him sit up as well. “Why not?”

“Do you think my being in your bed obligates me to marry you?”

He chuckles, “Surely dear, that’s _my_ question to ask.”

He knows the moment he’s said it that it was completely the wrong thing.

She’s furious, and she can’t hide it- it seems she can’t hide anything from this man anymore.

Wrong-footed, he murmurs, “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s not- _obligation_.”

She’s already scrambling out of the bed and putting on her shift.

He doesn’t make a move to stop her.

 

The next day, he’d sent enormous roses-yellow, her favourite- and a note. It said, simply. “I’m sorry.”

 

He doesn’t bring it up again- for a few weeks.

The second time he asks, it’s after they’ve spent an afternoon at the Turk’s Head. It’s one of the places they visit in daylight, and she does not go disguised as a man. Of course, the appearance of a woman- an obviously well-born one at that- does cause a momentary silence each time she makes an entrance. But the fact that she’s with Lord Thomas Hamilton goes a long way- a murmurous wave hushed just as quickly as it starts- and eventually, people go about their business, ignoring her. Thomas’ presence and personality carries her through the initial awkward meetings: but when they find that she is not shy or inclined to hide behind him, they soon accept her into their circle, and are even overjoyed when they find that she’s one of the few people who can outdo him in debate. It’s after one such occasion- she’d parried his every argument and then some- and in the carriage later, laughing, as they continued what they’d started- only this time with far less words- he says, on a groan- “Marry me, dearest”.

She draws back: “Is that a capitulation?”

“Yes! NO! Yes! It's whatever you want it to be.”

She only laughs and grinds down on him, pulls his hair harder.

 

It’s not that she doesn’t love him.

She does.

She _does_.

 

It’s her last week in London. The season is winding down, the galas are over, there’s a muted card party or three; small intimate affairs, with quiet conversations and languid movements.  

They are at White’s again. He’s unusually quiet, a little lost. Afterward, they walk, in mutual silent agreement toward the docks. Everywhere things are already stirring, as the city wakens from its slumber.

Two nights ago, he’d pressed her against the wall in his library, gone down on his knees, his fingers shaky as he undid her pants, hooked her leg over his shoulder, put his mouth on her, left her biting down on her wrist to keep from screaming. Her breath still coming in short bursts, she’d looked down at him, face flushed, lips glistening, hair rucked where she’d been clutching it, and asked, without knowing she was going to before she said the words: do you wish I had a cock for you to swallow? The crudeness of her words shocks her- and the way his breath catches makes her feel- _triumphant_ , somehow. He bows his head for a moment, and then looks up at her, nothing but honesty in his eyes: “You are not a substitute”, he says, “I do not wish for you to be anything but you are.”  He rises a little, to circle her waist with his arms, and she draws him to her, filled now with an aching tenderness, and kisses the crown of his bowed head.

They stay like that for a time.

 

They stand at their- by now usual- lookout, a little away from the main jetty. The early morning mist is clearing fast. Boats are already moving up and down, manned by grimy looking men and young boys. They shout to each other: Miranda cannot make out their language.

“Do you not trust me?” he asks. “Do you think I will cease to love you, if- if the-right- man came along?”

She shakes her head. “It is not that.”

“Then what is it? Help me understand, because-“his face turned toward her is desperate, and it fills her with pain-“because I _don’t_. Why would you walk away from this?”

“I-“

He grabs her hands. “I would give you everything that I had and then some more. You must know this.”

She takes her hand away, and looks away. “That’s just it.”

“What?”

“You would _give_ it to me.” She forces herself to look him in the face now. “You would be _giving_ it to me, because it is yours to give, and mine to receive. This- these last few months- here with you- it’s been like a dream come true, and it has been entirely because of you. Because you are Lord Thomas Hamilton, and what you want- you can get. You have been King Cophetua to my beggar maid and I- sometimes I cannot _bear_ that.”

He looks as though she had slapped him.

“You-are _you_. The sun around which everyone you encounter orbits. If we married-I would be forever the moon, in your reflected light; Lady Hamilton, wife and -mother- perhaps-and then- who would _I_ be? Would there be anything left of me that is untouched by you, unmade by you?”

He takes a long shaky breath, and when he speaks, it sounds like he’s been running a mile. “I have only ever treated you as my equal, in _everything_.  It is how I think of you: as my partner, my friend. If I spoke of _giving_ you anything, it is only because that’s how I think of love: giving until I have nothing left. I thought you knew that.”

He stands up abruptly, and she follows, facing him under the lightening sky.  

“Thomas-“

“I _know_ , Miranda. Do you think that I do not feel the injustice of it, that you must play act a man to be taken seriously? That if we married, the world would expect you to dutifully produce an heir and then retreat into obscurity if that was what your husband wished? That even as we speak, Parliament is filled with men like my father who do not deserve to be there, and universities are filled with men who think an education makes them better than their fellows in every respect, even when they do not understand the first goddamn thing about the world? That I would not change it, right this minute, if I could?”

“And that is what I mean- you are afforded your dreams. But I am not!”  she takes a deep shuddering breath. “You are given choices that I am not, and will never be. And when I do have those choices, it will be because of you- not _me_. Do you- do you- _see_?”

He looks away, and then back. Nods his head.

“I cannot-undo- what I am, what I have been given.” He says, his voice shaking. “And I will not, not for a _moment_ , apologize for thinking- that- I can change the world, and I intend to-“ and here he takes a deep breath again- “-but I cannot do it alone. I do not _wish_ to do it alone. All these years- I- I never thought to find someone like you- someone who would be my friend and equal- my partner in passion and mind- and here you are- a _miracle_ - _my_ miracle- and you-you would walk away.”

She’s crying now, and so, she sees, is he.

The sun rises, its rays haloing his head, turning the gold into something transcendent, limning his face, his _beloved_ face that could belong in a cathedral.

Even Nature, she thinks, a trifle hysterical, is a little in love with him.

 “I cannot force you to stay.” He says, quietly, searching her face.

“No”, she says, equally quietly. It is all she has, she thinks. This one word, against him and all that he represents.

He wipes at his cheeks, the tear marks drying, leaving no trace.

The bruise from those weeks ago has faded, only a faint outline remains, a slight darkening on his left cheekbone.

She remembers pressing her hand against it that night, as they kissed and kissed and kissed.

The way his skin had felt beneath her fingers: tender, breakable.

 

She takes a step forward.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter headings taken from If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho (Anne Carson).  
> The Marcus Aurelius "Meditations" quote is taken from the translation used in the show (which is a modern translation, not available in 1695).
> 
> Historical accuracy wasn't topmost in my mind when I wrote this bit of self indulgence. Apologies. Uh, also for the *terrible* names. 
> 
> Not beta-read, all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Come yell at me/with me about all things Black Sails over at drivingsideways33 on tumblr!


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